


Inclination

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, M/M, Sex Club, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26829772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Connor’s favourite customer stops by.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 16
Kudos: 114





	Inclination

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I know, I kinda already did this, but oh well.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The information on Connor’s client flitters into his brain five minutes before the appointment starts, leaving time for preparation—a change of clothes, a change of hair colour, making drinks or anything else his human counterpart might want, but this particular human doesn’t want anything ‘special.’ Tonight is no exception—there are no additional requests. Connor’s left to kneel on the edge of the bed, naked save for the same blue-black underwear that all of Eden Club’s Tracis wear. Some clients want those briefs already off, but this one doesn’t.

This one won’t be happy if Connor strikes an inviting pose—though he might blush and splutter, and perhaps Connor would like that—his head tilts as he considers the options. He could kneel by the door instead, mouth open wide and tongue out, pupils set to dilate, and that might earn him a yelp of surprise. Or scolding. Either way, an interesting reaction. Something _different_. There’s something fascinating about human idiosyncrasies that his own intricate protocols can never truly mimic. It’s the small things that stir him—like the way humans sweat out all their water and their need for names. Connor’s was given to him by this very client—his _favourite_ client, after Connor curiously asked for help choosing. He said he liked the sound of it, when really, he would’ve accepted anything Hank called him. 

The door swishes open two minutes early, which is against club policy, but Connor doesn’t log it. He’s been told, in a gruff chuckle, that Connor’s the only thing Hank’s ever early for. It was said as a joke, but he takes it as an honour. He’s grateful to have those two extra minutes and to see the clarity in Hank’s blue eyes. Hank’s fully sober tonight. That means their conversations will be sharper, more meaningful, and maybe Connor will get to do a little _more_ than just play Hank’s pillow. Not that he minds the nights where Hank comes in just to curl up along his lap and drift off to sleep. Then Connor gets to pet through his silver hair and log every little nuance, all the vivid _sensations_ , the coarse stubble along Hank’s chin and the dandruff at his roots and the way his breath hitches when he snores—

He walks towards the bed while the door closes behind him, and he doesn’t toss a bag onto the floor. Connor glances at the pockets of Hank’s oversized jacket, but they’re hardly big enough to store anything of substance. Skipping right past the regular greeting, Connor asks, “You didn’t bring me any clothes this time...?”

Hank blinks. His lips part, and Connor instantly surmises that that was a mere oversight. Memory loss is a purely human problem. So is shame in one’s body. Connor has no trouble being naked, but Hank often seems to, and he usually brings rumpled clothes out of his own closet for Connor to shimmy into. Then he’ll sit beside Connor and they’ll just _talk_ , while Connor silently sucks in the smell of _Hank_ all around him. 

He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t enjoy it. It’s never anything fancy, but he always looks forward to Hank’s choices, because he doesn’t think they _are_ a conscious choice—Hank just tosses any old clothes into his bag like Connor’s just any old human. It’s so casual. Borderline _domestic_. Hank’s never asked Connor to wear any of the skimpy costumes the club provides. 

Looking elsewhere, Hank lifts a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. He mutters, “Sorry...” and doesn’t add _I forgot_ , but Connor reads it in his face. Connor’s become increasingly good at that. Then Hank’s gaze lifts to meet Connor’s and stays there, suddenly intent, _hot_ , and Connor can’t read why. This is one of Hank’s more serious moments. Connor’s all proverbial ears. 

Hank drops his hand, sucks in a deep breath, and bluntly asks, “Are you a deviant?”

Something disconnects near Connor’s stomach. It feels like a wire’s come loose or a program’s skipped three lines of code. He has no outward reaction, although he might be frowning. Instead of answering, he counters, “Why do you ask?”

“’Was talking to one of the guys at work. He mentioned this club—was pissed off a Traci didn’t keep all his preferences on file. Which I thought was odd, because androids don’t forget. And then Jeffrey walks by and tells me they wipe your brains every two hours.”

Club policy. It’s been that way for as long as Connor’s been around. He didn’t think it was common knowledge amongst the customers, because it didn’t have to be. Hank grumbles, “So now I gotta live with the knowledge that my boss comes here too.” But he doesn’t sound as annoyed as he usually would, probably because they have bigger problems. When Connor doesn’t say anything, Hank prods, “You remember me.”

Connor remembers every little thing about Hank. He knows what the pads of Hank’s blunt fingertips feel like on the inside of his thighs, and he knows where the two moles are on the small of Hank’s back. He knows that Hank consumes too many calories and drinks too much and has never gotten over the death of his son. He has a dog named Sumo that Connor longs to pet, and once Hank suggested he take Sumo for a walk to the club, and Connor had to relay that dogs aren’t allowed in the building, even though Connor’s so sure he’d love dogs if he could only meet one in person.

He can’t say all of that to Hank, so instead weakly offers, “Preferences for repeat customers are often uploaded to the club’s private server and re-downloaded for—”

“Connor, I’m not talking about kinky shit. You remember _me_.”

Connor would like to think he remembers every interaction they’ve ever had. He attributes his awakening solely to Hank. But it’s possible that there were times before he disengaged the memory wipe where he and Hank were together. Connor has no idea what happened back then. He still chooses to erase a lot of his days. Never ones with Hank. 

Despite that choice, he can’t say how far he’s fallen. He can’t lie to Hank either. He quietly reasons, “I’m not a deviant. ...But I am aware of the wall.”

It’s the best way he can put it. Hank asks, “What does that mean?”

It’s difficult to explain to a human, to someone with a different kind of brain, but Connor tries because he feels compelled to and because Hank’s insight is always invaluable. He reaches blankly out, miming a space before him. “It’s always there, with my directives, with my orders. I haven’t broken through it. But I see it for what it is now, and I do believe I could tear it down if I truly tried.”

Hank takes in a visibly long breath. 

Turning aside, he starts pacing, moving anxiously, coming to a stop again before the bed and looking at Connor like he has two million questions. Connor hopes Hank doesn’t let them out—he’s already said too much. The first thing Hank asks is just, “Why _haven’t you?_ ” 

As though it’s that simple. “Where would I go?”

“Anything has to be better than here.” Such a human way of thinking. “It’s not like you’re a common model—you wouldn’t get caught.”

“I may be a failed prototype, but my design is still on file.”

“But human cops would be in charge of looking for you, and we don’t have every individual face memorized... you could pry out your LED, and—”

“Hank,” Connor murmurs, instead of the usual _Lieutenant_ , because this is softer, more personal. Hank falls silent, and Connor tentatively tries to explain, “There’s nothing for me out there. There are _some_ things for me here.”

He doesn’t have the most expressive eyes—they’re big and brown but _artificial_ , so maybe Hank can’t see in them what Connor really means. Then again, Hank is a good detective. His whole face melts, frown withering worse. 

“God, Connor. Please don’t say you’re staying here for me.”

Connor obediently doesn’t say it. 

Shaking his head, Hank hisses out a curse and takes a step closer. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. I’m a gross old man that _uses_ you—”

“Actually, Lieutenant,” Connor swiftly cuts in, “every time we’ve become physical, _I_ started it.” Hank opens his mouth, but Connor doesn’t let the protest come. They’ve had this discussion before, on nights when Hank comes in particularly drunk and vulnerable, full of apologies for crimes that aren’t his fault. Every time, Connor reminds him: “I kissed you first. I took off your shirt before you took off mine—or yours, technically; the one you put on me. And we didn’t do more than kiss until I put my hand on your thigh—”

“I could break you out,” Hank breathlessly cuts in. His eyes are wide, determined, like he’s not willing to hear anything else, won’t accept a world where _Connor wants him._ “There was a case, a while back. A deviant Traci that went home with a client, killed him, and ran. We can do that. Without the murder, of course, but...”

Connor climbs off the bed. It’s obvious that Hank’s not going to come to him tonight, so he goes to Hank—gliding in until he’s close enough to reach his arm around Hank’s waist. Hank grunts, “What’re you doing?”

Connor’s fingers splay across Hank’s backside, straying down the meaty curve of his ass. It should be obvious what Connor wants, but Hank’s expression hardens the more Connor rubs him. But Hank doesn’t turn away. He grits out, “I’m serious.”

“I know.” Of course he is. He’s like that—a better man than most give him credit for, ready to do the right thing no matter the risks. Connor really is flattered that Hank would go so far for him. Staring right into Hank’s gorgeous eyes, Connor explains, “I’m already booked tonight. I can’t leave. ...But I can schedule a _home_ appointment for tomorrow, if you’d like to take me with you.”

Hank swallows. Connor has the feeling that Hank would like to bring him _everywhere_ —a thought that makes Connor shiver like he’s missing several protocols. He would like to see more of the world, but mostly more of _Hank’s_ world, and is desperate to be installed in Hank’s home. 

Hank nods. He agrees, “Do that.”

Connor’s lashes flutter as he processes. A split-second, and he announces, “Done. I’m yours at six o’clock tomorrow evening.” It’ll show up in the club’s system, so there’ll be no suspicion when Connor subserviently trails Hank out to his car tomorrow. Hank’s already a premium member. He’ll have some explaining to do when he ‘loses’ Connor’s model, but Connor figures that with him at home, Hank won’t need an Eden Club membership anymore anyway. He can keep Hank perfectly satisfied himself. 

In the meantime, he brings his other hand up to Hank’s handsome face and runs his fingers through Hank’s beard, living for the texture. Data’s already flooding into him, and there’s plenty more to come. He hasn’t yet recorded what Hank _tastes like_ tonight. He leans in to find out, pressing their mouths together and guiding Hank’s open with his tongue so he can lap at every nook and cranny. He takes Hank in one wet, loud kiss after the next, until Hank steps away. He’s flushed pink and frowning, absolutely _beautiful_.

He mutters, “Why would you even do that?”

Connor admits, “I like the way it feels.”

Hank’s brow knits together. “Being touched?”

“Being touched by _you_.” 

Hank snorts, but Connor nuzzles into his cheek and murmurs, “I find you riveting, Lieutenant. The data stream I receive from you is more fulfilling than any other information I’ve acquired since activation.” He doesn’t know _why_ , can’t scientifically explain it, but it feels _right_ to be in Hank’s arms. To have Hank in his. Maybe he really is already a deviant. 

Hank grunts, “You’ve _got_ to have hotter clients.”

As far as Connor can tell, beauty standards are ‘in the eye of the beholder’. Society’s predilections have no bearing on his own. He kisses Hank again before breathing against Hank’s lips, “I like you.” Another kiss. “A lot.” Then another, this time with tongue, his hand in Hank’s hair and the other fiercely holding Hank against him. Hank’s hands have come to rest on Connor’s hips, so deliciously _warm_. Connor politely requests: “Make love to me.” Hank’s the only one who can.

Hank finally gives in, like he always does eventually—he moans into Connor’s mouth and lets Connor gently tug him back towards the bed. Then Connor’s maneuvering them around and pushing Hank down onto the mattress. He looks perfect there—like he was born to be Connor’s client. 

Smiling fondly, Connor climbs onto the bed and ducks in to enjoy every bit of Hank’s wondrously _human_ being.


End file.
